All posts by jcamilli

Laura Yanasak: Francophile Turned Teacher

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Laura Yanasak never thought she’d end up standing in front of a classroom full of students. When she graduated from the University of Wisconsin-Madison with a degree in French, she told herself, “I’m going to get a cool, cool job. I don’t know where or what but it’s not going to be teaching.” Now, as she enters her thirteenth year at the Milwaukee French Immersion School, she looks back at her initial resistance with a smile. Today, her students know her as Madame Yanasak. She has a superpower the average human might dread: teaching a class full of eager kindergarteners. Think that’s not hard enough? Try it in a different language. Her job is to introduce French to her students by immersing them in francophone language and culture.

Growing up as she did in Wauwatosa, a suburb twenty minutes outside Milwaukee, there wasn’t much exposure to francophone culture. It was a chance gift from her mother, a set of French flash cards, that first got her interested in learning the language. Middle school, when she first started taking French classes, presented an opportunity for Mrs. Yanasak to see “what else is out there.” She stuck with the language for long past her initial sixth grade French class. French sparked her curiosity to learn more about the world, a passion which only grew stronger during Mrs. Yanasak’s first trip to France at 16. Visiting Paris and the Loire Valley with her mother opened her mind to how big the world is; “there’s so much more out there,” she says, “than little Wauwatosa.”  

After college, Mrs. Yanasak originally planned to pursue a Master’s in French film from the University of Iowa. She eventually decided against it and set French aside to work at the Journal Sentinel in Milwaukee. After cuts to the newspaper caused by the ‘08 recession, she found herself back in school; this time as a teacher. A woman at a Friends Meeting gave Mrs. Yanasak word that a French immersion school in the area was hiring, and she spent a day volunteering at the Milwaukee French Immersion School. MFIS’ identity as a public school, and one of the few public immersion schools in the area at that, attracts students from all backgrounds. It took a leap of faith to imagine herself working there as a kindergarten teacher. She says the serendipitous timing of an open teaching position made the decision easier–that, and the instant hugs she got from the kids. With only a week and a half of turnaround time in between jobs, she dusted off her French-speaking skills and jumped right in.  

The first four or five years, according to Mrs. Yanasak, were rough: “you basically have to jump in and just start doing and you’re going to make an insane amount of mistakes.” She pulled 12-13 hour days, learning on the go. On particularly rough days, Mrs. Yanasak has to put on her “English necklace,” which her students respond to with wide eyes and gaping mouths.  All classroom communication is supposed to be in French, Mrs. Yanasak says, but when the necklace comes out, the kids know they’re in trouble. Moments like this, which can only be learned on the job, make her laugh. With more and more time in the classroom –she eventually bumped up to second grade and then down to kindergarten again– she decided to pursue her Master’s in Education at the same time as teaching.

Part of her pedagogy’s purpose is to inspire the sense of wonder learning a language brings, one that Mrs. Yanasak felt as a child with her French flashcards. Getting students excited about French means giving them access to the diverse range of francophone cultures across the world. Mrs. Yanasak’s students are young, and she often has to deal with kids biting one another and lots of temper tantrums, but she’s convinced this is the perfect time to jump in and learn about a language and culture other than your own. “I think language learning is one of the coolest things there is because little kids are just sponges,” she says. “They just take it in… It’s still so cool to watch their brains just grow in that way.” Learning a new language can be challenging, however, and Mrs. Yanasak has learned to meet students on their own ground. They are at different developmental stages, with some kids reading at a third-grade level while others cannot identify letters, all of which she must accommodate, in French. She teaches at an immersion school because there, students come together over a shared passion for language learning. 

Mrs. Yanasak took a round-about path to where she is now, but she takes pride in confronting the challenges teaching presents and in the work she does. “Teaching is one of the hardest jobs there is,” she says, “but it’s also one of the most rewarding.” The personal connections come as part of the job, from teaching multiple children from the same family to relying on her peers for support, are why she plans on sticking with this job until the end of her career.  And she should; Madame Yanasak plays an influential role in her students’ lives. The immersion aspect of her classroom, in particular, teaches students the importance of cultural and educational exchange. In the future, Laura tells me, we’re going to have to persuade Americans who don’t believe they need to learn a second language, that in fact it’s essential, if we ever hope to reduce xenophobia and a number of other ills that face our country. “Maybe one day,” she says hopefully, “we’ll have a language policy like every other country in the world.”

Quarantine 15

Op-Ed

Hand sanitizer, N95 masks, and ventilators. News coverage and social media-driven discussions about coronavirus focus on what we are lacking in the fight against COVID-19. In popular discourse, memes and Instagram stories have added another item to the list: self-control. Our apparent inability to socially distance ourselves from our refrigerators is causing Americans to sound the alarm against “Quarantine 15,” the idea that the average person will gain weight from stress-eating, boredom, and gym closures induced by the coronavirus. Why is it that in the midst of a global pandemic, we remain obsessed with how we look and what we weigh, especially when our appearance matters less than ever? 

Mandatory shelter-in-place orders mean American society is more sedentary than ever before. For the majority of us, the most steps we get a day are from moving from bed to couch, couch to fridge, with an occasional walk of the dog outside. With gyms, parks, and hiking trails closed, there are few options left to move around and be active. Yet, gaining a little weight during quarantine has quickly become a cruel joke –both something to simultaneously laugh at and fear– with some saying the “Quarantine 15” is just as worrisome as coronavirus. The cultural messaging behind this idea, spread by memes and humorous Internet comments, is that bodies who deviate from the Barbie-sized norm are somehow shameful.

If you have the privilege of a full fridge and are able to stay at home, the Quarantine 15 folks tell us, coronavirus is a lesser evil than imminent weight gain. Given the global pandemic, this obsession with weight and appearance is unseemly, to say the least. Healthcare workers aren’t worrying about whether or not to eat another slice of homemade banana bread; they are struggling to find pauses in their day to get a sip of water or use the bathroom. Households dealing with food insecurity aren’t concerned whether their pre-pandemic jeans still fit but instead are fighting to put food on the table. Those who wrestle with disordered eating are having their worst fears turn into the butt of a joke, all while trying not to fall into unhealthy coping mechanisms caused by this disruptive change in routine. In depicting weight gain as the enemy, “Quarantine 15” minimizes the challenges faced by all of these individuals.

With change dominating our daily lives during this pandemic, watching what we eat may represent a way to exercise some control in our lives. But in a time of crisis, shaming and making fun of those who lack this “self-control” reveals the darkly destructive American obsession with body image. Diet culture and ideas of thinness are so deeply ingrained in our cultural mindset that even in the midst of self-isolation and social distancing, we are measuring our self-worth based on how we look. As we’ve seen, coronavirus doesn’t care about numbers on a scale; weighing 110, 235, or 312 pounds has no effect on whether you fall victim to the virus. How we look and the number on a scale should be the last thing on our minds with the hyper-contagious, potentially fatal virus knocking on our doors. Our culture’s fixation on weight gain and loss before monumental events, from the dreaded “Freshman 15” to pre-wedding diets, takes its most ridiculous form in “Quarantine 15”. This pandemic calls for some perspective on body image: life changes, so does our body weight. 

What fatphobic “Quarantine 15” memes miss is that in times of crisis and social isolation, food can be a great source of joy. Food is not the enemy; it can be the vehicle of love. Cooking, baking, and bartending represent important chances to connect with others. Through sharing recipes, figuring out what a bread-starter is, and bingeing on Bon Appétit videos, you experience a sense of fellowship related to eating. The simple enjoyment of food and sharing it with people you love should not be understated or obscured in the panic of “Quarantine 15”. You don’t need to keep six feet away from your fridge, pandemic or not. 

Women Without Men: Change Will Come

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

In today’s charged political climate where American-Iranian tensions dominate headlines, Women Without Men (2009) takes viewers back to Iran in 1953, when the US crossed the political rubicon by intervening in Iranian politics, setting the stage for the geopolitical conflicts of today. Although the CIA-engineered coup to overthrow progressive-leaning Mohammad Mossadegh and reinstall the dictatorship of the Shah serves as important cinematic context, it merely frames the dominant subject of the film, the women. Women Without Men focuses on the lives of four different Iranian women, showing us a brief snapshot of what it means to navigate life as a woman in Tehran at the time. Based on the 1990 novel by Shahrnush Parsipur and directed by the Iranian multimedia artist Shirin Neshat, the film is powerful in its silence and the beauty of its characters and landscape; such quietude contrasts with an underlying, unspoken tension that makes the film an intense yet worthwhile experience. 

The four women of the film–Munis, Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri–have different backgrounds, making an unlikely group. Munis’ desire for personal freedom contrasts with her friend Faezeh’s religious devotion and conservative outlook, while Zarin’s past as a working prostitute contrasts strikingly with the wealth and status of middle-aged Fakhri. Despite these differences, the group of four is united by their experience of mistreatment by men. Munis is constrained by her authoritarian older brother and Fakhri by her abusive husband, while Zarin and Faezeh must process trauma inflicted upon them by anonymous men. Their lives overlap when Fakhri leaves her husband and purchases a villa outside Tehran. The other three women gravitate to the villa; Zarin stumbles upon the property accidentally and is found lying unconscious in a pond after fleeing the brothel, while Faezeh seeks out a place of refuge with Munis’ help after being sexually assaulted. Munis doesn’t stay long, lingering at the villa only to drop Faezeh off and then starting a second life working with a pro-Mossadegh Communist group. Regardless of how long each woman stays, they all find what they need within the group, whether that’s independence, coming-of-age, or the freedom to do what they like. Rejected or hiding from their past lives in one way or another, the four women adapt to their new-found autonomy. Little dialogue occurs amongst Munis, Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri but the silence between them affirms their deep yet unspoken bond and their resilience.     

Neshat’s vision of the villa and the cinematographer Martin Gschlact’s work give Fakhri’s new home meaning beyond the physical space itself. The villa and surrounding orchard have a mystical, hazy quality that envelops the lives of its female inhabitants. This mysterious aura also serves to protect Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri in their nascent independence, shielding them from the constraints and unrest of the outside world. In scenes where each woman travels to the villa, we get long shots of a single, solitary road that make it feel as if we are going back in time or traveling to a different world; one where women coexist sans men. The scenes from the villa are full of color, whereas the scenes of Tehran are presented in dull shades of grey, with the notable exception of the opening scene. Fakhri’s property calls to mind the Garden of Eden–lush, green, and enchantingly quiet. The air is thick with possibility, both from the connections between the female characters and the land itself. 

The gauzy properties of the villa translate to the screen the “magical realism” that Neshat adopts from Parsipur, coloring Women Without Men’s characters and plot. By incorporating fantastic and mythical elements into the stories of Munis, Faezeh, Zarin, and Fakhri, she implies there is more to an otherwise realistic story. Her use of magical realism makes it feel as if the four women are part of an art exhibition, portraits that she then brings to life not as characters but as symbols of what it means to be a woman in Iran. Munis, Faezeh, Zarin and Fakhri are important not because of who they are but what they represent; they are figures who gain true relevance and strength only in relation to each other and their significance in a larger story. The properties of magical realism also allow Neshat to convey meaning without overtly stating her message; she uses aesthetics and oneiric elements to make a deeper political statement. Her technique is well-suited to the current political context of Iran, where anything perceived as critical of the government is considered treason. Neshat’s status as an Iranian exile herself shows the risks and consequences of making politically dissident art. 

Throughout the silences of the film, tension hums in the background, leaving us with the feeling that something isn’t quite right. When Fakhri and the women open up the villa for a party, inviting men into their space, a cognitive dissonance is created. The get-together was intended to celebrate the women’s newfound independence and companionship, but it signals change and a possible threat to the safe haven they have created instead. Upon hearing Fakhri’s plans to host this gathering, Zarin falls sick, an ominous warning about what’s to come. The unease of the party is magnified by Neshat’s pairing of uncomfortable opposites: the tragic passing of one of the women contrasted with a beautiful singing performance, the fall of another’s political dreams against the backdrop of a wedding party, the appearance of soldiers on the night Fakhri begins her new, independent life. This jarring juxtaposition slowly crescendos to a breaking point during the party, which ends up being the villa’s last. 

The magic that has been cast over the villa proves to be precarious. The return to normal suspends Fakhri’s small oasis of women supporting other women and growing into their true identities. The commune of women living independently and healing together threatens the existing social order, and with the reinstatement of the Shah, can no longer be permitted. Things seemingly go back to the way they were before. Yet, in her new dress and made-up face, tracing her steps on the road back to Tehran, Faezeh’s character hints otherwise. The women from the villa can return to a semblance of normal life, perhaps, but not to its substance; more change will come.

Do I Speak Your Language? Only Because Someone Told Me I Should

Letter to the Editor

To The Editor: 

Bénédicte de Montlaur, in “Do You Speak My Language? You Should,” addresses the decline of language education in America, arguing that the U.S. lags behind the rest of the world in linguistic competency at a time when knowing a foreign language has become increasingly important. The effects of this deficit, she says, will be felt for generations to come. What Montlaur neglects to take into account is the politics that accompany language education. How does the language curriculum privilege certain kinds of knowledge while pushing others to the side? We need to rethink language education while examining how educational curricula signal an unspoken hierarchy in what should and shouldn’t be taught. 

In the world as described by Montlaur, educational institutions are lacking both funding and interest, which has caused language curriculum to suffer from a utilitarian approach. This scarcity of resources means universities and schools must choose what languages are taught based on how many people speak the language and how relevant it is rather than satisfying the hunger of curious language-learners. More “niche” languages, from Japanese to American Sign Language, are often only options at the post-secondary level, and even then, suffer from small department sizes, receive less funding, and enjoy fewer course offerings. Departments that teach French or Spanish, although modest in size, still receive more resources and attract higher numbers of students than departments that fall outside the canon of Western languages. 

Why learn a language? Because someone said you should? Or because you genuinely want to access and understand a culture other than your own? Only in the latter does it make sense for you to speak someone else’s language.

The Great Minnesota Get-Together

Feature Report

The State Fair is Minnesota’s version of a pilgrimage. For the past 150 years, hundreds of thousands of Minnesotans have journeyed to the fairgrounds to celebrate a sacred and time-honored tradition: stuffing one’s face with food, then running around to see what else the fair has to offer. The State Fair has something for everyone, and families can let go and enjoy themselves.

As a kid, I thought the fair had the best of everything: amazing food, barns full of animals, exhilarating amusement park rides, and fun-filled parades. This sensory overload, heightened by the scents of the fair, was heavenly; each year presented a new variation of the multi-layered aroma of mini-donuts and cheese curds. For lunch, my sisters, brother, and I got Pronto Pups and ran around the fair in our tie-dye shirts, corn dogs in hand. Food was a religion on its own: we saw people eat alligator-on-a-stick, spam burgers, and chocolate chip cookie beer to prove their piousness. My childhood favorite was the Sweet Martha’s stand, where they sell buckets of freshly-made chocolate chip cookies that pair perfectly with a cup of all-you-can-drink milk (from the cow). For a kid, this milk and cookies combo is the closest we can get to seeing the divine. Looking back, I am unsure if the fair truly lived up to its many superlatives, or if my childhood self simply saw the world through rose-colored glasses. Now that I’m older, I don’t notice the cotton candy-perfumed air, but the overpowering smell of farm animals instead. The food I once loved –sweet, savory, fried, on a stick– causes my stomach to churn. And although I still love chocolate chip cookies and milk, I no longer desire to eat a bucket full of them in one sitting without a Lactaid handy. They say gluttony is a sin. Not for kids at the State Fair. 

When I was young, I was oblivious to the downsides of navigating a fairground full of thousands of people. Now, meandering through the fair, milkshake in hand, I notice parents calculate exactly how much sugar is too much to give their child and the packs of teenage girls roaming around looking for their next Instagram pic. I know I graduated from the ranks of child to adult when the barns full of farm animals no longer appealed to me. As a kid, I loved running around the livestock-filled barns, giving a prayer to the animals on their judgement day of skill or beauty. My siblings and I became pros at sneaking a few affectionate pats of the various farm animals when no one was looking, petting the animals without any thought to washing our hands after. At the fair as an adult, I make sure to bring hand-sanitizer. 

The afternoon parade concludes each day, where all the fair attendees in attendance assemble to watch marching bands and Princess Kay of the Milky Way (crowned via a uniquely Minnesotan pageant competition) dance or float their way through the fair. Crowds line up on the sides of streets that criss-cross the fairgrounds, the mingled scents of sunscreen, sweat, and afternoon fatigue perfuming the air. As a kid, the bubble of optimistic youthfulness protected me from focusing on the negative parts of the parade. The heat, crowds of people, and noise didn’t bother me, all I cared about was being acknowledged by Princess Kay. She’s the closest thing the Minnesota State Fair has to a saint, with a commissioned bust made out of butter on display at the fair. The logistics and hygiene of maintaining a butter sculpture in 90 degree heat never crossed my mind as a child, but go without saying through the eyes of an adult. 

Now, I look back on this yearly pilgrimage and question if it really was that fun after all. There are a lot of great parts of Minnesota to explore instead –one of the 10,000 lakes, the bustling music and food scene of the Twin Cities, and the state’s reputation for Minnesota-Nice– so why did my family insist on attending a crowded, smelly, overpriced fair with four kids in tow? I think it’s because of the deep tradition and faith inherent to any pilgrimage – why else would you embark on a long, arduous journey? Going to the Great Minnesota Get-Together represents something sacred for Minnesotans. I’m sure I will find myself bringing my kids to the State Fair in years to come, hoping to see the fair as I once did, through the eyes of a child.

Right Hand, Baby Steps

Blog Post

I was a bundle of nerves. My head throbbed and my skin prickled, my body trying to adjust to the sounds and smells of a new place. The performance I dreaded was not a voice recital or a major athletic event, but my first meal in Dakar, Senegal. In preparation for my semester away, I had read in travel books and materials provided by my program about the importance of mealtimes in Senegalese culture, and I wanted to start off on the right foot by impressing my host family with my knowledge. Maman Diagne, my host mother, Dieylani, my host brother, and Aim, their live-in maid, and I settled onto wood benches around the communal bowl. I picked up a spoon and dug in to our dinner of Senegalese couscous, beef, and carrots. Immediately, everyone around me cried out, “Non, non!” and gestured to my spoon. My host brother Dieylani tried to show me how he held his own. I focused on the position of his hand and tried once more, only to hear “non” again. The “Lonely Planet” page on Senegal had neglected to tell me eating with your left-hand is considered impolite, since the hand is used to wipe yourself in the bathroom. The issue wasn’t with how I held the spoon; it was which hand I held it in. Determined to make mealtime as smooth as possible, I switched the spoon to my right hand and faced my first meal in Senegal, my grip as unsteady as a small child making its first steps. 

My initial discomfort in navigating Dakar was overcome by the déjà-vu I experienced walking down each street; I was always reassured by the sight of NesCafé vendors, beignet-sellers, and the merchandise from corner boutiques populating the cluttered sidewalks. While exploring the neighborhood around our school one day, my friend Katie and I found Mohammed’s, a small sandwich shop nearby named for and run by Mohammed. His menu was straightforward: sandwich omelette-frites, consisting of an omelette and french fries, or sandwich omelette-spaghetti. I was hesitant: were eggs and spaghetti really supposed to go together? Mohammed had decided yes, and after trying this combination, I agreed. The logic of Mohammed’s sandwiches was indicative of the underlying norms of life in Senegal. Here, I found that the most unlikely of combinations made total sense. Plus, it tasted good: I averaged three of Mohammed’s sandwiches a week. The best part of the sandwich? They required two hands to be eaten, which left little chance for a cultural faux pas. 

I was initially very confused about these unspoken rules surrounding food: what were you supposed to do if a small fish bone ended up in your mouth at dinner? How much does bread cost if there were no labelled price tags at the corner-store? Why did our meals have so few vegetables? I followed Aim closely trying to get some answers. She found my incessant questions to be very funny. These awkward moments, where my previous interactions with food  conflicted with the underlying logic of eating in Senegal, (I usually did not eat food with bones in it, had always shopped at a grocery store with price tags, and tried to eat some form of veggies each day) brought Aim and me together. From her I slowly learned that bread costs 100 CFA, and I started buying my own “pain et beurre” at the same corner-boutique by school every morning. Aim, fascinated by my love for vegetables, took me with her to purchase tomatoes and salad to have with dinner some nights. These outings broke the ice between us and led to jokes about my ‘healthy’ eating habits. Because I loved salad, she called me “mouton,” or sheep. I was still getting used to the logic surrounding food in Senegal and Aim was getting used to my bizarre eating habits, but we bonded over a love for sweets. Together, we talked about our days over bags of sugar-coated peanuts, or snuck out of the house to get beignets. Somewhere along the way from salad to sugar, I started reaching for food with my right hand.